


C2H5OH

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Chemistry lab partners, Chemistry pun, Consent is important and John makes sure he gets it, Drunk John Watson, Drunk Sex, Drunk Sherlock Holmes, Drunken Kissing, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, It's a cheesy one, John Watson is bisexual, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, PWP, Smut, Unilock, You've been warned, inspired by a dream, like actually, they're in their 20s btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22874707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: John attends a Halloween party with his girlfriend. Things don't go as planned, and he realizes the night has more than one surprise in store for him.
Relationships: Janine/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 31
Kudos: 130





	C2H5OH

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a dream I had. shoutout to [AnneCumberbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/pseuds/AnneCumberbatch/works) for convincing me to add that chemistry pun at the end of the story
> 
> C2H5OH is the chemical equation (or whatever) for alcohol.

John hadn’t known Sherlock for long when he saw him at the Halloween party. They rarely interacted outside of their shared chemistry class. Frankly, John was surprised to see him there at all—it didn’t really seem like his scene. He wasn’t wearing a costume. Instead, Sherlock was reclined against the wall beside a group of students playing beer pong, red plastic cup in hand, a distinct look of distaste on his face. He lifted his head, scanning the room, and John raised a hand in a hesitant wave. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and John was abruptly towed away when Janine grabbed his hand, pulling him through the party. 

“Come on, John,” she said, tugging him toward a group of young women, each dressed as some variation of Barbie, just as Janine was. John kept his eyes dutifully on their faces and nodded his greetings as he was introduced. He avoided the urge to look down at the ridiculously large amount of bare leg and thigh he was faced with. 

Janine smiled at him, and John smiled back. 

“What are you dressed as, John?” One of the girls asked—Malibu Barbie, apparently—and John tilted his head with a wry grin.

“Ken, I guess,” he replied, gesturing at his polo shirt and khaki pants. He shrugged. “Fairly low-key costume.” 

The girls giggled, a few of them casting him sly looks from under thick lashes, and John provided an uneasy smile. Janine sighed. 

“I’m going to get something to drink,” she said, slipping away before John could offer to go instead. 

Malibu Barbie fluttered her eyelashes at him, and John quickly excused himself. He was on thin ice with Janine already, after a few forgotten dates, which he had slept through after studying all night. He wasn’t about to throw a flirtatious misunderstanding into the mix. 

He scanned the crowd, failed to locate her, and sighed. Beelining for the refreshment table, John grabbed a beer—any beer—cracked it open, and downed half of it. 

“Trying to catch up?” 

The voice spoke right beside his ear, and John jumped, beer sloshing over his hand, wrist, and trousers. 

“Ah, shit—” he said, turning with a grimace to find Sherlock standing at his side, brows raised in faint amusement.

“Sorry,” he said, giving John a once over with those laser-sharp pale eyes. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“Yeah, all right,” John grumbled, dabbing at the beer on his skin with his sleeve. Sherlock eyed him, appraising. 

“Are you meant to be dressed as something?” he asked.

“Ken doll.” John’s reply was distant, scrubbing at the beer soaking into his pants. When he looked up, Sherlock had a bemused expression of confusion on his face. “You know—Ken and Barbie?” Sherlock looked at him blankly, and John rolled his eyes. “Never mind.” Sighing, he gave up on trying to dry his khakis. “Surprised to see you here—doesn’t really seem your thing.”

Sherlock shrugged, a half-rise of one shoulder. “I live in the building.” He took a drink from the plastic cup in his hand, studying John over the rim. “Thought I’d check it out.”

John snorted. “Sure it didn’t have anything to do with the free alcohol?” 

Sherlock didn’t reply, but the surprisingly crooked smile he offered in response made John grin back. The moment stretched out, neither speaking, and John began to shift on his feet, feeling his face turning red.

“Well—” John cleared his throat, rubbing a hand over the back his neck. “I’d, ah, better find Janine.” 

Sherlock’s lips quirked, and he tilted his head. “I would try the back bedroom.” There was a sheepish expression on his face, apologetic but determined. 

John shot him a look, confused and irritated, and stalked off in that direction.

Things went downhill from there.

After knocking on and opening the door to the back bedroom, and finding Janine with some guy from her organic bio class, John resolved to get as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible. He achieved his goal relatively fast, downing hard liquor until he was reeling, vision blurred and doubling as the party went on around him. 

By the time he had bumped into some over-muscled jock-type, and tossed his arms up in a definite ‘come at me’ challenge, John was well past the point of return. With the meathead advancing on him, he was only saved by hands grabbing at the back of his shirt, dragging him out into the hall. 

“Lemme go,” John slurred, swinging his arms wildly, twisting against the restraining grip. “If you don’ lemme go, I’m gonna—” the hand released the back of his shirt, and John stumbled forward, against a wall. He whirled, clumsy, grabbing at a small end table for balance, and came face-to-face with Sherlock. 

“How drunk _are_ you?” Sherlock demanded, grabbing John’s shoulder to steady him, weaving himself. He smelled strongly of liquor, and John pointed an accusing finger at him. 

“Drunker than you!” he retorted, before pausing as he realized that didn’t put him in the right. 

“Clearly.” Sherlock’s response was dry if a little slurred, and he tugged at his dishevelled hair. He tipped his head back, bit his lip, and seemed to come to a decision. “All right—come with me.” Grabbing John’s aimlessly drifting arm, he tugged him down the hallway and up a flight of stairs. They both stumbled up, John tripping at the landing and almost taking them both down with him. Sherlock hauled him back up, mumbling to himself, fishing for keys and unlocking a door marked _221B._

John squinted as they entered the flat, taking in the small, cluttered space. He blinked, rubbing at his face. “You don’t have a couch?” he asked, looking at two small chairs and a desk, and not much else. Sherlock sighed, pulling a face.

“Nope, and shut up.” Closing and locking the door, he yanked John toward a door beside the kitchen, shoving him through. John tripped inside, catching Sherlock’s arm, looking around the small bedroom.

“What’re you doin’?” The words emerged mushy and slurred, and Sherlock blinked at him with glassy eyes. 

“Keeping you out of trouble,” came the sharp reply, and Sherlock tumbled onto the double mattress. John eyed the bed, shrugged, and pulled off his khakis and polo shirt, dropping in beside Sherlock, who was clumsily kicking out of his tight jeans and turtleneck. 

“Don’t think lab partners usually share a bed,” John mumbled, words loose and indistinct. Sherlock’s foot pushed into his shin, the other man making a low, annoyed sound.

“You can sleep on the floor if you want.” Sherlock’s grumble was somewhere near his ear. If John had been much less inebriated, he might have felt self-conscious, uncomfortable, in the smallish bed. Instead, he shoved his face into the pillow, drooling from the corner of his open mouth. 

“Nah,” he managed, eyes closing. “’S fine.” 

There was a muffled grunt in reply from Sherlock, and John felt the world fall away.

xxx

When he woke, it was still dark. Shifting, John tilted his wrist, looking at his watch. _4:22am_. He had been asleep for almost two hours and still felt very drunk. He blinked, trying to adjust to the dark room, his memories a colourful blur. 

Someone shifted beside him with a soft noise, a deep hum, and the mattress dipped as a warm body pressed into his side. A sharp chin dug into his shoulder, and John let his eyes close, soft hair brushing his cheek. Lifting his arm, he encountered skin, bare and hot, and he stroked a slow hand over the curve of a hip, eliciting a quiet murmur of approval from the dark shape at his side. 

There was movement, and humid, alcohol-scented breath wafted over his forehead. John blinked, eyes just making out the faint outline of a face. His breathing quickened, body responding to the heavy weight against his side, and he tilted his head forward. His mouth met with a cheek, then a chin, and finally soft lips, pliable and yielding beneath his own. There was a quiet moan, swallowed down his throat, and John deepened the kiss, licking past full lips into damp heat. Lifting his hands, he traced over a sharp, angular face in the dark. Over prominent cheekbones and up, into tangled curls. 

Sherlock. He was kissing _Sherlock._

And Sherlock was kissing him back.

John groaned. Sat up and nudged until Sherlock rolled onto his back, John straddling his thin waist. Their kisses changed, messy and desperate, Sherlock tugging at John’s bottom lip with his teeth until John shifted lower, mouthing at the curve of his neck in the dark. The new position brought a different sensation into play, a hot, hard press against his hip—Sherlock’s erection. John’s breath stuttered, his own arousal growing in response. 

Sherlock was wiggling beneath him, pushing his pelvis up in jerky little movements, soft moans rumbling in his throat as John’s tongue laved over his neck. The noise filtered through John’s drunken fog, lancing through his intoxication enough for him to hesitate. Shaking his head, he shifted back up Sherlock’s body, pausing with their mouths inches apart.

“Sherlock,” he said, slow and reluctant, but adamant. “Are you sober enough to be doing this?”

The noise Sherlock made in response was rough, low and annoyed. “ _Yes_ , John.” His hips lifted, grinding into John, making John twitch and bite back a moan. 

Pulling in a breath, he shifted his leg, pressing Sherlock’s thighs into the mattress to make him stop. “Not sure I believe that,” he said, drawing another frustrated sound from the man beneath him.

“I’m soberer than you are!” Sherlock snapped, struggling, stroking his hands over John’s shoulders and back until John caught them, holding them still. 

“Prove it,” John replied, catching a flash of white in the dark: Sherlock, baring his teeth in anger. 

“How am I going to— _fine!”_ Sherlock’s eye roll was almost audible, and he began to cite the periodic table from memory.

“Pretty sure you could do that in your sleep,” John pointed out, doubting but amused. Sherlock’s scornful huff puffed out against his cheek.

“Ugh,” Sherlock groaned, and he cited it backwards, noting the atomic mass numbers in English, then French, then German. When John began to laugh, Sherlock grabbed him by the face, tugging his lips down to his, muttering, “you believe me now? Can we do this already?”

“Oh, yes,” John breathed, and he pinned Sherlock’s arms over his head, kissing him thoroughly. Sherlock responded by tugging off his pants. He tossed them away, and yanked John’s off as well, before wrapping his ridiculously long legs around John’s waist, wiggling and frotting against him.

“ _Jeeeesuus_ ,” John panted, sweat beading between their bodies. Sherlock made a sound against his neck, a high-pitched keening that had John lunging up to find his lips, kissing the noise from Sherlock’s mouth with eager energy. 

“John,” Sherlock gasped, pulling his hands free and grabbing at John’s face. “Oh, fuck, _John_.” 

“Yes, Sherlock.” John’s reply came low and needy, his mouth sucking colour into a pale neck, lost in the dark of the room. “ _Yes,_ come on, baby, come on.” He bore down, drawing a mewling cry from Sherlock.

Sherlock’s voice stuttered in his ear, heavy with panting. “Say that again,” he demanded, biting John’s shoulder. “Call me that again.” 

“ _Baby,_ ” John murmured, nuzzling his lips against the sweat beading on Sherlock’s skin, licking over his jaw. “Baby, come for me.” 

With their legs tangling together, rhythm a sloppy bump and grind, Sherlock did come, spilling between them. His body convulsed, head falling back, fingernails scrabbling at John’s back. The noises he made were soft and broken, agonized with pleasure, and they pushed John into his own climax, shuddering through the orgasm with Sherlock biting at his lips.

“Oh god,” John moaned, falling still and heavy onto Sherlock’s chest. “Oh my _god_.” 

Sherlock hummed in his throat, a long, pleased sound, pushing his face against John’s cheek. “That was even better than I’d imagined.” He sounded smug, and John let out a surprised bark of laughter.

“Huh,” he said, lifting his head and blinking at Sherlock’s dim face in the dark. “I’m flattered—didn’t know you thought of me like that.”

“Well, _clearly_ I do,” Sherlock huffed, pressing a kiss to John’s temple. “You’re just incredibly oblivious.” 

John paused, thinking over their class interactions, and their limited contact outside of chemistry. Nothing stood out to him as particularly obvious, at least not concerning Sherlock expressing any kind of interest. Aside from some rather intense staring, nothing came to mind.

“Nah,” John replied, smirking. “I think you might just suck at flirting.”

Sherlock’s offended scoff was loud in the dark. “ _Excuse me_ for not resorting to banal, basic pick-up lines.” 

John snorted. “Do you even _know_ any pick-up lines?”

There was a pause, Sherlock’s eyes closed as he thought. When he opened them again, he looked hesitant, uncertain. “I only know one,” he said. 

Shifting onto his elbows, John looked down at him, brow quirked. “All right—give it to me.” 

Sherlock scowled, opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. His face was warm, blush lost in the dark. He cleared his throat and said, “Do you have 11 protons? Because you are _sodium_ fine.” 

Silence stretched out before John laughed. Eyes sliding shut, he curled against Sherlock’s chest, shaking with mirth. Sherlock made a noise, pushing at his shoulders. 

“Stop laughing at me!” he demanded, angry and vulnerable. John silenced his affronted protests, covering Sherlock’s mouth with his, kissing until he melted beneath him, making little sounds of pleasure against John’s lips. 

“I’m laughing _with_ you, you madman,” John said, finally, tilting his head back for air. Sherlock’s response was a low rumble, and he set to wrapping his long limbs around John, tugging until they were on their sides, chest to chest. Sherlock’s face pressed into his neck, curls tickling John’s chin. 

“I’ll allow it,” Sherlock murmured, mouth against John’s collar bones. John smiled, slipping his arms around the long, lean stretch of Sherlock’s body. 

“You have my gratitude, oh brilliant one.” Sherlock snorted against his skin, wrapping a possessive hand around the jut of John’s hip. They were both sticky and too warm, but neither seemed to mind, Sherlock’s words muffled as he nuzzled at John’s throat.

“Call me what you called me earlier,” he demanded, and John smiled.

“Mm, baby,” he hummed, a throaty whisper, and pressed his face into Sherlock’s hair when the other man purred deep in his chest. Wrapped up together, John let sleep pull him back under.


End file.
